


Whatever You Do, Don’t Let Go

by citron_presse



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citron_presse/pseuds/citron_presse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severide faces up to the mess he’s in and risks asking for help. Set sometime post 1.08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever You Do, Don’t Let Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waltzmatildah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltzmatildah/gifts).



 

 

 

  
_Like a river to a raindrop, I lost a friend_  
 __  
 _And tonight I know it all has to begin again_  
 _So whatever you do, don't let go_

  
_**Us Against the World**_ , Coldplay

 

 

Casey finally broaches the subject after shift ends, in the locker room, although the words aren’t really needed, the question has been hanging around him all day like the smell of smoke.

“Why’d you send Vargas in? I asked for you.”

“Training,” you say, avoiding. You can’t look in his eyes, so you stare at your locker, pretending to search for something.

He doesn’t respond right away, and you reach your right hand inside the locker and try to make a fist. Your hand shakes and it's weak, but you can do it. You’ve been playing this game with yourself since this morning, when you temporarily lost most of the feeling in your right hand right before arriving at the fire. It scared the crap out of you, which wasn’t helped by your right thumb doing a weird, twitching thing for around an hour afterwards. The only good part was that the Chief wasn’t there to witness it. Now the drugs you took earlier are wearing off, and your shoulder’s in spasm, spikes of pain shooting through your neck and arm. The last few days, you’ve been feeling nauseous, dizzy, on and off, and it’s hitting you right now.

“It could’ve gotten nasty,” he says. You kind of admire the control in his voice, because he’s clearly angry and disappointed in you, even more than usual. “I asked for _you_.”

You make yourself turn to face him, make yourself look at him, make yourself act like the stubborn ass version of yourself he’s come to expect. “You had it under control,” you say. “Vargas got the guy out. Nothing happened, nobody got hurt. Why the hell does this matter?”

“Why the hell didn’t you just do your job?” he counters.

Answers you can’t give him bombard you. _Because I couldn’t. Because, trust me, I’m the last person you wanted in there if it had gotten nasty. Because I have a broken neck, loss of feeling in my right hand, off-the-charts pain when I’m not drugged up just this side of impaired judgment. Because_ –- and this is the part you really can’t face -- _you’re gonna have to get used to doing this without me, so you may as well start now!_

“I _did_ my job, Casey.” You sigh, like this is something trivial and tedious, beneath the attention of a squad lieutenant. “I used an easy fire as an opportunity for training.” You raise an eyebrow. “Anything else I can help you with?”

He stares at you in disbelief. “Yeah, there is actually.  You can try not being a prick once in a while.” He shakes his head, turns, and leaves without waiting for an answer.

Relief washes through you at the sight of his back going out the door, because you are this close to not holding it together, and you can’t let him see that. Your thumb twitches and you clamp it under your fingers, denying, still, because it’s all that stands between you and going under.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you get back to the apartment, Leslie’s not home. Which you tell yourself is great: all you want right now is space to hide, and her absence is giving you a break. For a few seconds, that is, before regret cuts through you. Because you and Shay? You have something rare, something that works, and now she kind of looks at you like you’re messing up her life along with yours, like she’s disillusioned, lost respect and the only reason she’s still roommates or even friends with you is out of misplaced loyalty.

You sink down on the couch and try to get a grip on yourself, but this is breaking you down, faster and faster, and the thoughts batter you until you give up the fight. _I’m losing everything. I’m fucking losing everything._ When your mind clears long enough for you to notice, you find your face is wet with your own tears.

You can’t do this anymore. You can’t string this out until your body breaks down, or you fuck up on the job and kill someone. Yeah, you’re scared, make that fucking terrified, but you can’t let this erosion win.

For the first time since it all started, you get that you have a choice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t speak when he answers the door, just raises an eyebrow at you, tiredly querying your presence outside his house.

You hand over the not quite complete six-pack you brought, and after several seconds’ consideration, he takes it. “There are only four beers,” he says flatly.

“Yeah.” You found the beer on the back seat of your car. You can’t even remember buying it now. “I, uh, I had it in the car . . . shopping wasn’t really the first thing on . . .” You trail off, hopelessly ill at ease. This seemed like such a great decision; now you’re here, your certainty is rapidly fading. You reach in the pocket of your leather jacket and pull out a pack of cigarettes. Your hands – _both_ of them, which counts as comforting in the screwed-up reality you live in – are shaking. “Mind if I . . .?” You indicate the cigarettes.

“Not inside the house,” he says.

“Yeah, of course.” You knew that. That was always his rule, even when you were hanging out all the time. You pull out a cigarette, then immediately push it back inside the pack. Your thumb starts twitching again, you’re suddenly freezing cold, and you don’t want to stand out here. You want him to let you in, offer some glimpse of hope that what you’re about to do isn’t the dumbest mistake you’ve ever made.

“Why exactly are you here, Severide?” he asks sharply, his tone crushing you so hard it almost sends you reeling.

“I, uh . . .” You use all your willpower to grin. “I decided to try not being a prick.” You get the words out just before the pain smashes like a hatchet through your shoulder. You grit your teeth, close your eyes and push your left arm up against the doorframe, leaning into it for support.

“Kelly?”

“Matt, can I please just come in?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So let me get this straight.” He swigs back a mouthful of beer and eyes you warily, like he’s hoping he didn’t understand you right. “You broke your neck the day that Andy--?”

“Yes.” You don’t want to hear the word _died_. Not right now. The pain is gruesome, blood pounding through your shoulder, audible in your right ear, and the right side of your neck is so stiff, like it’s clamped in a vice, that you’re scared if you turn your head something’s going to crunch apart. Your guilt still has the edge, though.

“You broke your neck?! And you’ve been working since then?”

“I have a C5 fracture,” you try to minimize, by instinct, hating yourself for it but unable to stop. “I didn't even know at first." Like that puts you in a better light. "It's been okay. Kinda.”

“Because,” furrows appear in his forehead, “of the massive doses of narcotics you’ve been taking?” He raises his eyebrows, waits for your response.

“Yeah,” you mutter, folding in on yourself and into the couch cushions. “I just told you–-”

“Indulge me,” he says dryly. “Because what I think you told me is that you’ve been on duty with me and my team, not to mention yours, seriously injured, in pain and abusing painkillers. What I _think_ you told me is that every day I’ve trusted you on the job, you’ve been a liability waiting to happen.” He stands up, paces back and forth once or twice, then rounds on you. “Because I want to believe that what I think is wrong.”

“Why’d you think I sent Vargas in today?” you say, regretting the defensive justification instantly it’s out of your mouth. You really should try not being a prick, especially now.

He gathers himself so fast, you barely see his fist until it stops, tense and rigid, within inches of your jaw.  He’s well past enraged, shaking with fury, and you stare at him, not certain you could move right now even if you wanted to, not certain you even want to, because if he goes through with it, after what you just told him, well, then, fuck it, maybe he should. Then he drops his hand and takes a step back, jams his fist into the opposite palm. “Fuck!”

He never swears. That is, hardly ever. He has to be really angry or really upset, or both.

One time a father saved himself from a house fire and left his two little kids inside. You got them out, pretty much unscathed against all the odds. Casey laid into the guy with an outburst that began, “What kind of father . . .?”, included the word _irresponsible_ and the phrase _should be ashamed_ once or twice, and otherwise was basically a stream of cursing. You were all proud of him. The guy deserved it. Still, you didn’t quit riding him for weeks afterwards – you’d never known he knew half those words.

He uses them all again as he launches into a tirade against you that makes you want to duck, or crawl away and die, or . . . whatever, the decision's taken away from you as your eyes start watering again, your throat scratching with grief and self-disgust, as he finishes with,

“And what the fuck did you mean by _we don’t vent_? Because, seriously, the finer points of squad protocol are more important than the safety, the _life_ , of one of my team? One of my, shit . . . _your_ best friend?! But the most basic CFD regulations don’t apply--”

“All right,” you choke out. “I get it. I’m a piece of shit.” You use your left hand to scrub at your face. “You think I don’t know that?!”

He inhales, stands absolutely still with his eyes closed for a few seconds, then, quietly, “That was out of line. Andy . . ." He shakes his head, inhales again, "I was out of line, okay?" he repeats, finding your eyes, nodding deliberately to back up his words and, suddenly, there's a kind of fragile absolution between you.

He moves back to the couch and sits down. “Why are you here?” he finally asks. “Why aren’t you in Boden’s office, or better yet the Emergency Room?”

“Either of those, I lose my job,” you begin.  But that's just an old reason, one you'll have to deal with tomorrow, and it’s not enough, doesn't skim the surface of why you're here.  “I guess I need a friend,” you say, under your breath, in case he throws it back in your face.

He nods slowly, in acknowledgement, then does, says, nothing, for minutes, while you wait, looking down at your hands, trusting him to come through for you, dreading that he won't.

You're close to desperate, when he clears his throat.

“Hey, Severide,” he says very softly, and you look up. He’s awkward, uncertain, still a little resistant, but you can tell, you _know_ he’s on your side again. “It’ll be . . .”  He rolls his eyes, not voicing the cliché _okay_ , because, you get it, who the hell knows?

“Yeah, right,” you say, from resignation, from fear, your eyes tearing up again, but still you breathe out, feel your muscles relax a little, your heartbeat begin to slow down, and you half-smile at him as you edge back into a world you'd given up on, a world you thought had given up on you.


End file.
